Mending
by Queen
Summary: People were built to heal, given some time. A bit of red thread, a geranium red coat, and some silver needles. A few thoughts that may have run through Meryl's head in episode 25. oneshot


Mending

A Trigun Fanfiction

My hands are full of red thread, silver needles and a kiss. I never did understand why I was taught thimbles should be called 'kisses'…something about an old story Mother used to like, I think. Silly. I was never very good at sewing, actually. Cooking, cleaning, the usual domestic things are fine by me, but I always end up pricking my fingers all the time when I try to sew. The stitches go in wrong, or backwards, or the loop of thread ends up twisted around a buttonhole. Mostly I stick myself though. That's why I always had to wear a kiss on my thumb; it seems to be most susceptible to getting stabbed by an errant needle. Not that the rest of my hands aren't stuck enough. They're beginning to look like fleshy little pincushions, really. 

Ridiculous that it should be red thread I have to use. I wonder if maybe I should have taken black from the variety shop, instead. I might feel less silly, sitting here, sewing up the blasted apart, torn, ripped, blood and ketchup stained fabric of the crimson coat of a criminal. It's so strange, now, thinking of that goofy lunatic as an outlaw. Sixty billion double dollars, weighing on his head. And that's not the weight of the world for him, it seems. No. Was it really only a few days ago that Milly and I finally managed to unravel each others bonds, then stumble over towards him, on his knees, in shock, over a dead body with a single bullet in its head? 

Do I even want to know who he was? The man in a white coat who Vash actually killed? Before it happened, he told me some of his story. I've never met that man. Milly and I dug a grave for him, out in the desert. We couldn't carry him back, not along with Vash, who was, of course, more important. Just because he was alive, of course. Still. I don't understand. Every situation he's managed to get himself into he's managed to get himself out of, with no casualties, albeit gross amounts of property damage. Ow. Damn needles. Suck it up, Meryl. Place the blood on your lips and just suck for a minute until it closes and stops bleeding, same as you've done for the other couple dozen pricks you've given yourself attempting this process of mending. 

He always found another path. A way to get out of things without letting anyone get hurt. Why did it fail this time? All the paths would have had to disappear, leaving no other direction for him to go. Was it because I persisted in following him? It's my job. It's my excuse. Maybe if we weren't there, we, the tagalong insurance girls, working hard for the company's profit. Maybe if we weren't there, there would have been another path for him to take. Maybe the man in the white coat wouldn't have been able to force his hand. Maybe he'll get strong again. Maybe I'll tell him. Maybe, maybe, maybe my fingers have stopped bleeding. Maybes are so pointless now, despite being sharp as needles. I hate needles.

Looks that way, no more blood. Must continue. It's getting so late. The moons are out, and I can see the fifth moon through the window…and the crater put there during Augusta, where I should have been sooner…maybe then the presence of Milly and I could have changed things. For the better instead of for the worse, like this last time. I don't know if this is my fault or not…I did what I thought was best…I wanted to follow him. I followed. Milly's always trying to push for that 'follow your heart' nonsense, really does she think I'm blind enough not to get what she's angling at even if she doesn't say things directly? She's better at this than I am, even if I'm the sempai. 

There's plenty of light coming from the moons on the dark sky, craters or no. A checkerboard of pale bluish light on the floor, made from the crosses of darkened wood in the window, holding the transluscent glass in place. I should light a candle soon, or a lamp so I can see clearly. I wonder if there are other women out there, sitting around picking up the pieces and patching up the coats of men who are always getting themselves into trouble. A hole here. A tear there. The hole's small, I can fit my finger through it, feel the jagged edge where something pierced it, something not as sharp or clean as a needle. A bullet hole, a scar left on the vermilion fabric of the coat, so there's probably a reddish, thickened bit of scar tissue on his body to match. To match all the other scars. One among many. There are ketchup stains, too. Vash just wouldn't be Vash if he didn't have ketchup stains along with the bloodstains and bullet holes. Dork. 

He screams in his sleep.

More scars on his body, though this time, not visible ones. I can't even try to fix those. I don't know where to start. Clumsy, clumsy at fixing things. I can't sleep hearing him, so I'm sewing instead. Maybe I'll be useful that way. Helpful. Careful, use the kiss to push the needle through the fabric, force the material to match up again with my red thread. Hide the tears and the rips and the holes. Patch them back up. Maybe they'll be good as new. It doesn't feel like I'm doing much of anything. I work so we can keep the house, and buy food, same as Milly. I cook, and wait, and hope maybe the next time he wakes up, he'll look a little more cheerful. I'd like the dork back. Acting silly, so I can call him an idiot, and he'll look sheepish, or go running around in that stupid striped drinking tie of his singing and acting like a lunatic, crying and inhaling donuts like he used to when I first met him. 

And now? 

I was so glad when he first woke up. I gave him some food, soup I think that day, and then I couldn't stay. I used some stupid excuse, and I ran out of the room, and I heard him crying, while I stood on the other side of the door and did nothing. I couldn't do anything. Meryl Stryfe, the one with the cool head and cloak full of derringers ran out of the room because she was too scared to put the bowl of soup aside, put her arms around him and tell him it would be okay. Maybe it's selfish, presuming I could have held him like that, I don't know. I don't know what forced him to kill that man, but I know he wouldn't have done it if there was any other way. I should have told him that at least I…I believe…in him, and that he could try to fix things later. 

Like his poor, damaged coat and my poor, brutalized fingers. They'll heal eventually, and I _will_ manage to get these holes closed, and the rips stitched, and the stains out. I bought some new soap at the store along with the thread. Dratted ketchup. I'll make this damned crimson coat as good as new if it kills me. I might bleed to death in the process, though. Damn sticky needles. I need thimbles for all my fingers. The pain, the anguish. Suck on the new one, it'll close up too…the skin always heals. People were built to heal, given some time. Until then, I'll keep quiet. I'll wait, and I'll mend. I'm sure he will as well.

*

Author's Notes: 

Once upon a time not too extremely long ago, I wrote an _Inuyasha_ fanfiction entitled _My Gift To You_, in which I also used the concept of sewing a red coat for a theme. When I saw Meryl stitching up Vash's coat in episode 25, I couldn't help but be reminded of that oneshot fanfic, and found myself wondering how different two reflective fanfics would be with the same 'sewing a red coat' theme but for two very different series. This is the result. There's just something about red coats, I guess. ^.~ 

I also wasn't sure what to do with Legato. In the flashback of Vash telling Meryl about Knives, there's no scene included of Legato, and I can't remember her ever meeting him, so I'm assuming she may not know who he was, at least not without someone identifying him to her. 

Otherwise, I recently watched the movie _Hook_ for the first time in years, so I had little drabbles of Peter Pan-ness circling through my head when I thought of thimbles being called kisses. I have no idea if the people on Gunsmoke would have a clue who Peter Pan is, but it seemed fitting and squishy for the fic, so I hope you don't mind. 

Red thread…lol. Coincidental. In Japanese hm, symbolism? Belief? Stories? Couples are tied together by the red thread of fate, so pardon the flagrant abuse of it for my little pairing preference here. Even if the fic's not particularly romantic in nature.

I hope you enjoyed. 

1/14/04

~Queen


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